


Nailed Into Place

by waywardrose



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Ableist Language, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Blood, Episode: s01e03 Betrayer Moon, Episode: s01e05 Bottled Appetites, F/M, Folklore, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, I've altered the striga curse (pray I don't alter it further), Just a sprinkling of Geralt/Jaskier, M/M, New Orleans, Pedophilia, Serious Injuries, Sibling Incest, Timeline What Timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:42:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29340771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardrose/pseuds/waywardrose
Summary: Geralt Rivia is the only witcher in New Orleans. He's typically hard to find until Jaskier decides to announce on Instagram where he'll be performing via selfies with Geralt in the background. Baron Ostrit, an associate of mob-connected Foltest Temeria, shows up to hire Geralt to rescue his daughter from slavers.Another princess to save.Geralt finds himself in a tangle lies, from the Marigny to the Garden District—and consulting with a mage he hasn't seen in years...
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 6
Kudos: 14





	Nailed Into Place

**Author's Note:**

  * For [QueenOfTheNightKitchen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenOfTheNightKitchen/gifts).



> Please heed the tags. The pedophilia is only mentioned, and not committed by Geralt, Jaskier, or Yennefer. This fic is based on "Betrayer Moon" with some dialogue lifted wholesale from the episode. References to "Bottled Appetites" are mentioned in passing.

> _Each night I am nailed into place / and forget who I am._
> 
> Anne Sexton, "Briar Rose (Sleeping Beauty)"

* * *

Thursday, Faubourg Marigny

Jaskier sang from the taped off "stage" in the Apple Barrel Bar and threw him a wink. Evidently, we were feeling saucy tonight. The crowd ate it up; someone wolf-whistled.

It was absolutely the reason why Jaskier never missed an open-mic night. God forbid. Not that Geralt was complaining. Though he _could_ complain about having to find some place to park in Marigny. But he wouldn't.

Geralt pretended not to notice the wink as the bartender set another beer in front of him. A crawfish-sausage-dog combo with chips from the restaurant next door followed shortly thereafter.

As Jaskier's short set came to an end, the crowd gathered close. For a moment, Geralt couldn't see him. He picked up the sausage-dog and took a bite, because it wasn't like they were going to have another Dragon's Den incident.

Jaskier had promised.

He was halfway finished by the time Jaskier plopped down on the empty stool next to him. His guitar case clunked against the bar between them. The bartender slid a cocktail in front of him without prompting. Jaskier softly thanked the bartender before turning to him.

"So... How'd I do?" Jaskier asked and stole a chip.

He grumbled, "Not as pitchy this time."

Jaskier's mouth dropped open in offense. "You should keep eating." He gestured with the stolen chip. "Need to get that blood sugar up."

He grunted and took another bite. He _was_ hungry.

As the next performer set up, an overdressed man walked into the bar. The gray streaks in his hair and beard were too dignified. His well-tailored suit contrasted horribly with the hand-painted tables, multi-color rope lights, and dollar bills stapled above the bar.

The man gave the whole bar a once-over before his gaze settled on them. Sly recognition spread over his face—a familiar look. Geralt wondered whose wife Jaskier had seduced this time.

Jaskier noticed him taking notice of the newest customer and turned in his seat.

The man headed straight for them and offered his hand once near. "Geralt Rivia, I presume."

Geralt half-heartedly wiped his greasy hands on a napkin before shaking the man's hand. The air around the man stank of magic. With contact, he felt it slither under his leather jacket, wrapping around his forearm.

"Baron Ostrit," the man introduced himself and curled his now-greasy hand at his side.

Jaskier flirted, "Is Baron a title or a name?"

"Name."

"Jaskier," Jaskier chirped, holding out his hand to Ostrit.

Ostrit shook Jaskier's proffered hand. "Yes, I know."

"What can I do for you, Mr. Ostrit?" Geralt asked before Jaskier could derail the conversation. Though he could guess what Ostrit was doing in a dive bar on a weeknight.

"I have a commission for you."

"Of course you do."

"May I sit?" Ostrit asked, motioning to the empty stool on the other side of Geralt.

"Why not?"

Geralt picked the last bite of sausage out of the bun and popped it in his mouth. Ostrit ordered the same beer he was drinking, but didn't touch it when it was placed in front of him.

"Mr. Rivia—"

"Geralt," he corrected.

"Geralt," he agreed with a bob of the head and continued in a whisper: "I am in a dire situation. My daughter has been abducted by the LaLauries."

"Sounds like a case for local law enforcement."

"You and I both know the police cannot handle them."

Ostrit was correct: the LaLauries seemed to be above the law. The husband-and-wife team had been human traffickers for years. No one did anything about it.

"What makes you think I can?"

"I heard about the kikimora in Honey Island you dispatched."

"What has that got to do with the LaLauries?"

"You've heard she's a witch, yes?"

Jaskier interjected, "I've heard her referred to as something rhyming with witch."

"I'm afraid she's cursed my Adda," Ostrit continued as if Jaskier hadn't said anything. "Turned her into some monster. Striga."

He asked, "Why would she curse your daughter if they want to sell her?"

"I don't know. That's why I need you."

He deadpanned, "Because one of them might be a witch."

Which was the incorrect term, but he wasn't going to correct Ostrit here and now.

Ostrit nodded. "Yes."

"A mage is not a monster," he said before taking a deep drink of beer. "Why not go to another mage to help you?"

"I've already spoken with Yennefer de Vengerberg."

The music and general bar noise dwindled until there was nothing but cottony silence. He couldn't feel the hard stool under his ass. He watched himself gently deposit his pint glass on the bar. His dinner curdled in his stomach like sour milk.

Jaskier bopped him on the shoulder, making everything come flooding back. "We haven't seen her in years."

Actually, it had been six and some change. He could still recall her sweet, heady perfume, though, feel her silken hair—her even softer skin.

In some ways, New Orleans was a small town. In others, it was vast. He had managed to stay away from Yennefer for over half a decade, only hearing her name in passing.

Geralt hummed to himself.

"And what did Miss de Vengerberg say?" he finally asked.

"She said she had no quarrel with the LaLauries."

"No amount of money would persuade her."

"No, she was adamant."

"I bet she was."

Ostrit cleared his throat. "Which is why I come to you—"

"How did you find me?"

"Your friend announced his performance tonight on Instagram. He posted pictures again."

He remembered Jaskier taking a few selfies in the car earlier today. He hadn't thought much of it at the time.

He turned to Jaskier. "Did he now."

Jaskier cringed through a smile and mouthed, _"Sorry."_

He sighed.

"Will..." Ostrit began. "Will you take the commission?"

The only thing he had to go on was this girl had been abducted by notorious slavers. Magic was involved—and it probably included Yennefer. Somehow.

He shouldn't take the job. He really shouldn't.

Ostrit wasn't telling the whole story, either. There was no reason for him to smell of magic—unless Yennefer, or another mage, had hexed him. Perhaps Ostrit had been sent here to lure him.

But lure him into what?

He had a feeling Yennefer knew more than what Ostrit was saying. The LaLauries were only a piece in the puzzle. However, if they had direct contact with Adda, they should be the first on his list to visit.

"I need half upfront," Geralt answered.

Rent was due in three days.

* * *

Friday, French Quarter

The LaLaurie mansion imposed itself at a corner on Royal Street. It looked more like a fortress than a home with its gray stone facade and gated entrance. The second-story balcony was decorated with rail planters dripping with flowers, as was the style for French Quarter homes. All the windows were veiled in white—even the third floor.

Geralt reached between the ironwork pickets to press the brass call button. It took so long for anyone to answer, he began to think no one would.

_"Yes?"_ a tinny voice came out of the speaker next to the button.

"Geralt Rivia. Not a cop."

_"Do you have an appointment?"_

"I didn't know I needed one."

_"What are you looking for?"_

"A girl."

No reply came.

He was tempted to force the locked knob on the gate. Though, he knew that wouldn't win him any answers. A camera was to the right of the front door, and he stared right into it.

A moment later, the gate buzzed as it unlocked. He pushed into the tiled vestibule as the front door opened. Without making eye contact, a butler held the door and led him to a second-floor parlor. The mansion was cool and shaded, the air clammy.

The butler remained mute as he slid the parlor's pocket doors closed after Geralt. The heavy white curtains on the tall windows were drawn back to let in the afternoon light. The wide-planked floor was a glossy warm black. The walls, elaborate crown molding, and ceiling medallion were white washed.

The only color in the room was a red velvet sofa. It stood out like blood seeping through a new bandage.

He leaned a hip on the black sideboard by the fireplace and stared through the gauzy sheers. He could smell the nervous sweat in the room, see the imprints of naked feet on the floor. The velvet of the sofa had been mussed not too long ago.

The pocket doors slid back to reveal a woman of indeterminate age. Her chestnut hair had been bobbed short, taut skin fair, and dark eyes sharp. She wore a mint green suit and gold heels, unaccessorized save for a pair of diamond studs in her ears. She carried herself like old-money: in a lazy, swaying way that told him she wasn't.

Geralt caught a whiff of her expensive perfume, but not any magic.

She gave him a polite, business smile and held a hand out to the sofa.

"Please sit, Mr. Rivia," she greeted as she perched on one of the cream-colored armchairs on the other side of the white marble coffee table.

He didn't want to sit on the sofa, but he didn't want to ruffle any feathers just yet.

"I'm Delphine LaLaurie. You said you're looking for a girl...?"

He agreed, "A particular girl."

"You've come to the right place. May I offer you refreshment?"

"No, thanks. I was referred to you by Baron Ostrit."

"Ah." Her smile turned impish. "Baron's good people."

That threw him. "He refer a lot of clients?"

"Not many. We have supplied entertainment for a few of his soirees."

"Never had the pleasure."

"Yes, well..."

She surreptitiously eyed him.

He became aware of his less-than-formal attire.

She offered another business smile. "No matter! We should have something for you."

"I'm looking for a young girl."

"That's no problem."

"Someone connected to Mr. Ostrit."

LaLaurie's face became a pleasant mask right before his eyes. "Oh?"

"He said his daughter ran away."

"And you're searching for her?" LaLaurie adjusted her seat on the chair. "That's very noble of you, Mr. Rivia."

"He said—"

"You know, I never knew Baron had a daughter."

His thoughts screeched to a halt.

"What?" he asked.

"Baron's never mentioned a daughter before. However, his close associate, Foltest Temeria, has a girl."

"Adda."

LaLaurie nodded. "I do believe that's her name, yes."

_"Hmm."_

She continued, "I recall Foltest sending her off to some—" Her voice dipped into disdain as she said, " _—Swiss boarding school._ "

He tasted the lie behind her disdain, though. And he wondered why he hadn't picked up on Ostrit's lies last night. Nevertheless, his gut told him Temeria knew about his daughter's disappearance. Maybe even the curse. 

"Interesting," he commented.

"It is," she agreed and crossed her legs. "Funny, though..." She held up a manicured finger. "I don't know if you've heard, but unusual—and if I may say, unfortunate—things started occurring down on Chartres right when she left."

"Let me guess: the Old Ursuline Convent."

"Mm-hm." She looked pleased. "Now we here can overlook the vampires occupying the building, but all that brouhaha is—ah..." Pleased turned to unease as she placed her hand on her chest. "Well, it's bad for business," she delicately said and leaned forward. "I'm sure you understand."

Yes, he understood bloody bodies left on the banquette and locals avoiding the streets come sundown was bad for selling people to the highest bidder. It had gotten worse in the past few weeks. And while he had no love for vampires, he had no intention of facing a coven head-on.

"I do," he replied, thinking he was getting a picture, and stood. "Thank you for seeing me."

LaLaurie straightened and smoothed her slacks. "Of course! I hope you can find her."

She led the way to the parlor doors, heels clacking on the floor. The same butler from before waited just outside.

"Though I'm not sure you should," she added.

"Why's that?" he asked as he stepped into the hall.

"Terrible girl. Practically feral, if I do say so." She waved a hand. "Not Foltest's fault, of course! She just ought to be with her own kind."

"Her own kind...?"

"Well, good day, Mr. Rivia!" LaLaurie bid. "I do hope you visit us again! I'd so enjoy showing you _true_ hospitality."

With that, LaLaurie closed the parlor doors with a snap.

He didn't hear her move away, though he could hear her heartbeat. Its rapid tattoo belied her cordial words. She was anxious—about what, he couldn't say. There were so many things for her to be anxious about.

He was shown to the door without comment. He didn't fight it, either. His mind swam with all the things said and unsaid as he fished his sunglasses from the interior pocket of his leather jacket.

Ostrit lied about having a daughter and what had happened to Adda. Obviously, LaLaurie had something to do with Adda's disappearance. He had a feeling Adda hadn't been _a guest_ with the LaLauries for long.

He'd heard of Foltest Temeria, too. Who in New Orleans hadn't? He ran a network of restaurants. Rumor was, he had mob connections.

Geralt didn't know why LaLaurie said Adda had been sent to Switzerland, but then talked up Old Ursuline. She mentioned Adda was nearly feral.

He repeated to himself, "Be with her own kind."

He thought of the increasingly brutal attacks around the Old Ursuline—assumed to be the work of vampires. And Ostrit had mentioned the striga curse.

Geralt stopped in the shade of a Georgian mansion on Esplanade and turned in the direction of the Old Ursuline. Vampires and striga had similarities: bloodthirsty, sensitive to silver, a daytime resting place. Maybe not kin, but definitely of a kind.

He hummed in thought.

The Old Ursuline museum was currently open and full of humans now. He wouldn't put those people at risk to follow a hunch. Striga were only active at night, anyway.

He circled back to Ostrit stinking of magic as he continued down Esplanade. Not clean, expertly crafted magic, either. He knew what that felt like. Ostrit's had been crude. Like the charms sold in tourist shops just blocks from here. It was amateurish, heavy-handed.

It was still on Geralt, too. If he concentrated, he could discern it slithering between his fingers. There must be a reason Ostrit had needed it last night. The elements of a spell can say plenty about its intention. However, he didn't know everything about magic.

Shit, he thought as he hustled across Esplanade to his car. He didn't know a quarter of what there was to know. 

He knew potions and a few combat spells. While obviously related, something like what Ostrit had was beyond him.

But he knew of one person whom he could trust to parse it out.

* * *

Friday, Garden District

Yennefer sighed and stretched her bare limbs over the mattress. There was something so decadent about sleeping naked in the afternoon. She ran her feet against the soft, cool sheets. The light peeking around the closed curtains spoke of a sunny day. Not that it really mattered. She had no plans.

And she was glad she didn't, because the tremor of someone breaching her wards shivered through the house.

Rising to her knees with a growl, she gathered her strength, prepared to blast the intruder to kingdom come. No one invaded her home.

_"Yennefer?"_ a male voice called from the first floor.

Her heart lurched. That was a familiar voice.

Boots quickly clomped up the stairs and through the hallway.

"Yennefer?" he asked.

She said nothing as her hands dropped and magic settled. Only someone with good intentions could pass through the outer ward. And only a select few could make it over the threshold uninvited without being portaled to the middle of the Mississippi.

But only one would stomp and yell and be a general nuisance in her home.

He pushed open her bedroom door, saying her name a third time.

_"Geralt!"_ she shrieked and yanked the sheet up to cover herself. "What the fuck!"

"Oh, I—"

_"Turn around!"_

He did. "I apologize."

With a huff, she flung the sheet away. Infuriating man, she thought as she stood. With his dumb leather jacket—in the humidity of a late spring, no less—and faded black jeans. In all likelihood, he was still driving that overpowered brown hoopty, too. Though, it appeared as if someone had finally talked him into using a hair-conditioner.

No doubt Jaskier.

Geralt grumbled, "I thought you'd be awake."

"Had a late night," she stated as she whipped on a robe.

He didn't ask for details, and she didn't provide them.

"Your doors aren't locked."

"Like that could stop the likes of you."

She sighed at herself. Arguing this early in her day wasn't what she wanted. She secured the robe and finger-combed her hair before padding over to Geralt.

"You may turn," she said.

He was as handsome as she remembered. Scars and all. His golden eyes practically glowed in the half-light, yet they were troubled. She almost reached up to touch his cheek, but controlled herself at the last minute. They weren't lovers anymore.

"Why're you here, Geralt?"

"I need your expertise."

Something niggled at her awareness. She examined him, felt him out. A charm lingered on him. Not cast on him, but there'd been direct contact.

"So I see."

She stepped around him, heading downstairs to her bright kitchen. He followed behind, brooding and subdued.

Once there, she turned on the prepared coffeemaker. "Chicory coffee?"

"Yes, please," he replied.

She grinned to herself as she opened the stainless steel fridge for the creamer. Though one would never guess by Geralt's gruff exterior, he could be surprisingly polite. She always did appreciate that.

"You want my expertise...?" she prompted.

He stepped away from the kitchen peninsula, holding out his right hand. "Came into contact with a spell last night. I want to know what it's for."

"Take off your jacket."

He shrugged it off and hung it on the back of one of the peninsula's stools. The dark henley hugged his torso, strained around his arms.

She added, "Shirt, too."

He glanced at her before pulling the henley over his head and depositing it on the counter. His back muscles rippled. She was glad to see he hadn't earned any new scars in the time she'd last had him unclothed. He also appeared to be in top fighting form.

As he turned to her, she wondered why she hadn't had him in her bed all these years. She remembered how his chest hair gently abraded her skin, how strong he was, how he kissed.

He offered his right hand again as he approached. She took it in hers, stroked his callused palm. The spell was for response concealment, and she reported as much.

Without asking, he offered, "I met with Baron Ostrit last night."

"I've heard of him," she said, pulling the charm off Geralt.

She dispersed the primitive magic with a shake of her hand. It disappeared in the sunlight coming through the big window over the sink.

"He consulted with you."

She laughed and let go of his hand. "Years ago."

"He implied it was recent."

"Well, he lied," she lied and waved a hand to where the spell had lingered on him. Turning the cabinet above the gurgling coffeemaker, she pulled out two mugs.

"I don't think so."

"Are you accusing me of lying, Geralt?"

"He said you had no 'quarrel' with the LaLauries and that you wouldn't help get his daughter back."

"You know he doesn't have a daughter, right?"

"I do now." He sighed. "I met with Delphine LaLaurie not an hour ago."

"And what did the _illustrious_ Delphine LaLaurie say?"

"That Adda Temeria is a troublesome girl who's been sent to Switzerland for taming."

She snorted with a roll of her eyes. _What bullshit._

"My thoughts exactly."

She fixed his coffee how she remembered he liked: no sugar, touch of vanilla creamer. He thanked her for the coffee and took a sip. He looked pleased. His eyes flickered with warmth before he drank again.

He continued, "He mentioned a curse."

"I don't doubt it."

"Did he want you to undo it?"

"No, he wanted to know how to kill a striga."

_"Hm."_

She seasoned her coffee and turned back to him.

Geralt asked, "And you told him?"

"What I knew, yes."

"So, why would he come to me?"

"He's just a human. He can hardly kill such a creature."

She nodded at his now-charm-free hand as an example before sipping at her coffee. Ostrit obviously didn't have the skill to kill a bloodthirsty monster. She could see Ostrit's logic, though. Witchers, in general, definitely had the skill. Geralt certainly did.

"You think he wants me to kill it for him."

"Especially since it seems Adda Temeria and the striga are one in the same."

He nodded, looking mournful.

Everyone who'd heard of witchers thought them unfeeling, but she knew better. Geralt felt. His long life had done nothing to numb his emotions—just like hers.

With a determined look, he placed his half-full mug on the counter. He stepped closer. Close enough she could smell the scent of his soap, almost feel the heat from his skin.

He purred, "What aren't you telling me?"

"I don't know what you mean."

She knew he knew what he was doing. She took another drink of coffee and pretended not to notice his bare, developed chest. Perhaps she shouldn't have made him take off his shirt.

"Yennefer, please don't lie to me."

She sighed, because she didn't want to lie to him. "The Brotherhood isn't keen on unauthorized individuals practicing magic."

"So, Ostrit using charms, asking about strigas, is taboo."

"And they certainly won't appreciate me telling him what I know."

"Ah."

"Usually I'd say 'fuck them,' but Tissaia has been breathing down my neck as of late." She put her mug on the counter. "Seems strange for Baron Ostrit to ask me since the Temeria clan has Triss Merigold, a sorceress, on retainer."

"He doesn't want his inquiries to get back to Foltest Temeria."

"Yes, obviously," she agreed, though Baron must be unaware she was friends with Triss. "Triss is a good person. She's honest."

"Can you give me her number?"

"I can do you one better: I can introduce you."

"Oh?"

"I can invite her for lunch today." She smirked as she thought of a way to tempt him to stay. At least for another hour. "Even order a few poboys from Verti Marte?"

"I'd appreciate that."

She could tell he was interested despite his trying to play it cool.

"Good." She slid from between him and the counter. "I left my phone upstairs."

"Shall I make myself presentable for company, then?" he drily asked.

She hummed as she headed for the stairs. "You're fine as you are," she threw over her shoulder.

* * *

Sunday, New Aurora

Clearly, Triss Merigold was expected, her car was waved through the gated community entrance. From the passenger seat, Geralt wondered if he'd be given such easy access. Somehow, he doubted it.

Merigold gave him a pleased, if conspiratorial, look. They'd made it through the first hurdle. He didn't know how many more were to come, but she had volunteered to get him in the Temeria mansion. She agreed that something wasn't right. Adda—within the family, Ti-Adda—was gone, she'd said, and no one mentioned her anymore.

After passing a turn-off for the golf course within the community, Merigold pulled onto a side-road-turned-driveway that twisted through a manicured grove of trees. Beyond the grove, sat a mansion surrounded by low English-style gardens. The mansion itself was a call-back to the Greek Revival plantations on the River Road. Swamp azaleas and red spider lilies flared like fire in the sunlight.

Merigold parked at the end of the row of cars in front of the mansion.

"This driveway cuts diagonally through the property," she said before stepping out.

That meant a quick getaway if things went pear-shaped. As he got out of the car, he hoped they wouldn't.

No one was out front to greet them, though the sound of people came from the back of the house. Merigold didn't steer them that way. They'd agreed earlier to walk through the front door. There would be no stealth, no deception.

As he closed the front door after them, a deep voice called to Merigold.

With a smile, she strolled into the crowded pool room to the right of the foyer. A plump Creole man with gray hair and beard met her just beyond the doorway. He smiled, held her upper arms, and kissed her on the cheek.

"Where y'at, darlin'!?" the man asked.

"Aw, ya know what it is."

He laughed, giving her arms an affectionate squeeze. The man eyed him and let go of her.

"Hello, welcome!" the man said as he approached.

Merigold trailed behind, offering introductions. This was Foltest Temeria, who didn't seem to be ignorant of witchers—if the way his eyes went flinty as he surveyed him was any indication.

"This is my friend, Geralt Rivia," she said.

To keep his voice from carrying, Temeria murmured between them: "I didn't know you associated with witchers."

She replied, sotto voce: "I thought he might assist with your daughter, sir."

He held out his hand to Temeria. "My condolences for the loss of your wife."

Even he had heard that Temeria had lost his wife nearly a decade and a half ago.

Temeria hesitated for a second too long before taking his hand. "Thank you. That's very kind of you."

Interrupting the conversation, Baron Ostrit called, "Miss Merigold, so good to see you!"

Ostrit wove through the pool-players, a tumbler of scotch in his hand. His face was a rictus of ill-concealed panic.

"Baron, hello!"

Ostrit embraced her with one arm. He then switched the tumbler to his left hand to offer his right to Geralt.

"Baron Ostrit," he introduced himself as if they'd never met.

He shook Ostrit's hand. "Geralt Rivia," he flatly said.

This time Ostrit was clear of charms. Geralt heard his thudding heart, smelled the beginnings of stress sweat.

Temeria told Ostrit: "A friend of Miss Merigold's."

_"Ah!_ Well!" Ostrit's face lit. "A friend of Triss's is a friend of the family."

"Thank you."

Temeria added, "He thought he might help with Ti-Adda."

"I wasn't aware help was needed with Ti-Adda," Ostrit replied, glancing between Merigold and Geralt.

Temeria gave Ostrit a look before walking to the large dining room across the foyer. Ostrit gave his fellow pool-players a nod and followed a few steps behind. Merigold sighed as she trailed after him. The pool-players mumbled amongst themselves and returned to their game.

Geralt hummed to himself as he left the pool-room doorway.

The deserted dining room held a round walnut table that easily sat ten. A gilt mirror hung between the French windows and a portrait of the late Adda presided over the room from the front wall. She had been beautiful with wavy dark hair and in a vintage Halston dress.

"—is a family affair," Temeria hissed from the farthest corner.

Merigold said, "I know, but—"

"No, she's being kept safe. I have assurances. And if that's good enough for me, it's good enough for you."

With hearing that, Geralt knew he wouldn't be permitted farther into the house. He pondered on whose assurances Temeria was so sure of. The LaLaurie's? Ostrit's? Some unknown third party? Or did he not want to know more beyond Ti-Adda's survival?

Merigold whispered, "The full moon is coming, and you know how she gets." She held out her hands. "What if we can cure her?"

Incredulous, Ostrit asked, "And you think a witcher will do that?"

Temeria nodded and pointed at Ostrit in agreement. "He's more likely to slay my girl than save her." He shook his head. "No. She's fine where she is."

Geralt stepped into the room and came around the table. "Call her condition 'fine' if you wish, but she's been mutating for years. Growing hungrier with every moon."

Temeria scowled, yet said nothing.

He skimmed Ostrit, finding only dread, and said, "But she's cursed, and curses can always be broken."

Ostrit fully turned to him, his face defensive and eyes pleading when Temeria couldn't see. Merigold watched him from the opposite side of the table.

"How bad did it get?" Geralt asked. "How did she change? Did she hunt and claw apart whoever she found?" Ostrit opened his mouth to protest, but Geralt persisted, "Did you clean the blood from under her nails? Off her face?"

_"Enough,"_ Temeria muttered as his hands balled into fists. "Leave."

Geralt stood his ground. "I was told Ti-Adda was kidnapped, yet you say she's fine. _Safe._ I think Ti-Adda is killing innocent bystanders, which I think you know, too. Ti-Adda isn't here, though you know exactly where she is." He ambled to the portrait of Adda and hummed to himself. "Did you watch Adda die, Mr. Temeria?"

Ostrit began to object.

Geralt cut him off by asking: "Why prolong everyone's suffering?"

"Do you know who you're talking to?" Temeria returned.

"Yes, which is why I'm asking. Your wife was killed by a curse." He leaned a hand on the window frame. "And it took hold in your daughter. Yet you did nothing."

Temeria glowered as he ground his teeth.

To Geralt, Temeria felt more offended by the accusation than upset that his daughter was an angry, bloodthirsty monster. It didn't add up. The whole place reeked of secrets and lies. He studied Adda's portrait and wondered why there wasn't one of Ti-Adda. Did they not look alike? Or was Ti-Adda beginning to look like someone else?

"Who is Ti-Adda's father, then?" he asked, glancing at a stricken Ostrit.

Merigold opened her mouth to speak, but appeared to think better of it.

"Is it true what they say about witchers?" Temeria countered with a snarl. "That whatever grants you those _abilities_ also takes away your emotions? I have to assume so, because only a heartless bastard would accuse a father of betraying his daughter."

"I think that's enough for today," Ostrit cut in.

He stared at Ostrit as he bit his tongue for the nth time this afternoon.

"Yes," Merigold agreed. "We'll show ourselves out."

He led the way to the front door and held it open for Merigold. She walked onto the porch, looking over the manicured grounds. He stepped beside her as she sighed.

"That wasn't supposed to go down like that."

"No."

"Would you really kill her?" She sounded genuinely curious as she asked, "Why do you care?"

"You first. I heard the way they talk to you. Why help those who won't listen?"

She shook her head and crossed her arms. If she'd been appointed to Temeria by the Brotherhood, she had no choice. It didn't matter if Temeria heeded her words or not. All she had to do was report what he decided.

She sighed again. "I'm sure you've already thought of a way to see Ti-Adda's suite."

He had, actually.

"This place have back stairs?"

"Off the kitchen." She met his eyes. "I'll move the car."

He waited against the house, shielded by the porte cochere spanning between the main house and garage. Merigold appeared beside him between one blink and the next. She told him she would lead as she took his arm.

No one paid them much mind as they wove through the throng of guests on the back lawn. Merigold smiled, offering soft _"hi"s_ to familiar faces, as she walked to the kitchen door. Neither Temeria nor Ostrit were in sight as they stepped inside once more.

The kitchen bustled with catering staff, who were too busy preparing food to shoo them back out onto the veranda.

She let go of his arm and murmured, "She was on the third floor."

He followed her to a narrow stairwell leading up, listening for Temeria's or Ostrit's familiar gait. There were too many voices, too much laughter and clanking of cookware, to discern either man. However, it seemed as though both were occupied at the front of the house.

He and Merigold made it to the unadorned third-floor landing without incident. A strained stillness pervaded the stale level. He smelled the traces of blood and buttery vanilla body spray underlying the scent of wood polish and window cleaner.

Merigold met his gaze. "Adda and Foltest were already married when I came around, but I still wonder how they met."

"Did she talk to you?"

"Of course. I suppose we were friends." She lifted a shoulder. "She didn't have a lot of experience. Or friends. She was reserved."

"Did she talk about her husband or Ostrit?"

"Foltest, some; Baron, not so much."

He approached the lone bedroom door on the landing. "Well, I'm pretty sure Ostrit is the father."

"So, who do you think cursed her? Foltest?"

"Maybe," he replied and tried the knob to find it unlocked.

The room on the other side of the door was stuffy yet bright. The sheer curtains on both tall dormer windows barely softened the sunshine. The walls were the most delicate pink. A curtain-less white canopy bed stood against one wall.

As Merigold closed the door, she asked, "Why not curse Baron instead, then?"

Upon closer inspection, he saw dings in the wall. The coordinating vanity table next to the bed had no stool. There were no lamps, either. The armchair tucked into one of the deep dormers was showroom new.

"The striga curse doesn't work on men."

"Yes, but there are plenty of other curses," she pointed out.

"I think—"

Between the dormers was a built-in bookcase, where family pictures were tucked amid school binders, decorative tchotchkes, and hardback books. He examined the pictures to see Ti-Adda was the spitting image of Adda. If Temeria loved Adda like Geralt thought he did, he wouldn't have had the stomach to harm Ti-Adda.

"You know," Merigold began as she strolled to the dresser. "Foltest's mother, Sancia, hadn't approved of the marriage. He told me that himself." She turned to him. "Could Sancia have had Adda cursed?"

"Maybe," he said again.

Merigold opened a dresser drawer to poke around. He studied the pictures, realizing Foltest and Adda had a striking resemblance. They'd had the same coloring. Something about the nose as well as the face shape mirrored. Foltest had gained some weight since the pictures had been taken, so their similarities weren't as obvious now. However, Geralt could see it here.

He asked, "Did Sancia dabble in sorcery?"

"Not that I know of."

He hummed and wandered to the bed. It was made, but the sheets weren't fresh. The closer he got, the more peculiar the faint scent became. He expected the scent of girl and shampoo, but he also detected something else: sex.

"How old is Ti-Adda?" he asked.

Merigold shut the drawer she'd been perusing. "Fourteen, why?"

He leaned in, recognizing the smell of male sweat and other _things._ "A man's been in this bed."

Merigold gasped and rushed to his side. He met her gaze to see her disgusted shock. She genuinely hadn't known.

She opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the bedroom door lashing open.

It was Ostrit.

"You two need to—"

Geralt growled and charged at Ostrit. Yes, he recognized that male scent. It had been Ostrit in Ti-Adda's bed. He fisted the collar of Ostrit's crisp oxford shirt and threw him into the room. Ostrit tripped onto his knees. His shoulder knocked into the bed.

He stalked forward. Ostrit scrambled back, loafers squeaking on the bare hard-wood floor. Merigold put a hand up to him as she stepped between them. He stopped behind her to stare at Ostrit over her shoulder.

Her voice quaked as she asked, "Why did you tell Geralt Ti-Adda had been kidnapped?"

Ostrit bit out, "Motivation." He stood and dusted himself off. "A witcher wouldn't care if a deal had gone south."

"Deal..." she repeated and glanced at him.

"Are you Ti-Adda's father?" he asked.

"No, of course not! She's a Temeria, through and through. More Temeria than anyone realizes." A pained look crossed his face. "They were first cousins." To Merigold, he asked, "Did you know that?"

She shook her head.

He continued, "Raised together, like brother and sister. They had a common-law marriage since they couldn't legally marry."

"And that gives you the right to violate Ti-Adda?"

"I did no such thing!"

Pointing at the mattress, Geralt growled, "Then explain your scent all over this bed!"

Ostrit shook his head, shoulders curling. "She looks so much like Adda. Adda was _mine._ She was supposed to be _mine!_ "

"Does Foltest know that?" Merigold asked.

"No, I was just a friend. But she loved _me._ " He leaned in. "She talked to _me._ And he _stole_ her from _me._ Always making her laugh. Always demanding her attention."

He said, "That still doesn't explain what you were doing in Ti-Adda's bed."

"She went on these rampages—you were right, Mr. Rivia—they are getting worse. I didn't intend— It wasn't supposed to happen."

"What wasn't?"

"He was supposed to suffer! I didn't know—" Ostrit floundered in the middle of the bedroom. "There'd been no warnings. No one told me what the curse would do."

"You cursed Adda?!" Merigold exclaimed.

"Foltest needed to suffer as I have! I wanted him to be reminded _every day_ what he did to us." Ostrit held his head high. "In his mourning, he knew. _He knew._ Then Ti-Adda began to change." He deflated. "She was a sweet girl. Kind. Creative. So much like her mother. Until she wasn't." He shook his head. "I helped Foltest subdue her, time and time again."

He looked at Merigold. "You remember how we had to calm her together in the past year."

She nodded.

"Sometimes it didn't work. Sometimes it was only me in the house. Foltest out in the city. _Taking care of business._ Business that should've been _mine._ But she... She was strong. She'd scream for things, claw at me, twist under me."

Geralt had heard enough of Ostrit blaming a cursed girl for his actions. A girl who Ostrit had cursed himself. He stomped around Merigold before she could stop him to sock Ostrit square in the face. Ostrit hit the floor, unconscious and bleeding.

He hoped he'd broken Ostrit's nose.

"She's in the Old Ursuline," he stated, trusting his gut. "The full moon is coming. I'll get her then."

Merigold didn't stop him from leaving the bedroom. He heard her sigh as he descended the stairs. He met Temeria on the second-floor landing. Temeria gave him a black look as he shook with outright fury, but Geralt held up his hands.

"I'm going," he said, not needing a fight.

No one thwarted him from leaving the mansion. He marched between the planting beds in front of the house and slipped on his sunglasses. Standing on the driveway, he turned to look at the three dormer windows on the third floor.

He didn't know how— _or if_ —Merigold would explain Ostrit's involvement. He didn't care what Temeria decided. He would break Ti-Adda's curse. He would do right by a girl who hadn't chosen her circumstances. He didn't know if he'd be successful.

He hadn't always been.

He continued to Merigold's car, finding it at the opposite end of the long driveway. It was locked.

He leaned against the door with a sigh. "Fuck."

* * *

Wednesday, French Quarter

A full moon peeked between the gossamer clouds in the night sky. It had rained earlier, making the broken blacktop's oil slicks shine. Shutters on the residential townhomes were already closed. The only illumination came from the occasional gas light above the banquettes.

While the stillness could be unnerving, Geralt preferred it. He didn't want anyone getting in the way. Nor did he want to be distracted by extraneous noise from drunk humans.

As he crossed the street in front of the Old Ursuline chapel on Chartres, a black car parked ahead flashed its lights. He paused under the streetlamp and watched as the back passenger door opened. He had a feeling he knew who would step out.

And he wasn't wrong when Foltest Temeria emerged from behind the door.

He sensed a wild hunger awaken somewhere inside the old convent. He needed to get this confrontation over with—whatever Temeria intended. Ti-Adda would be on the streets soon.

Geralt sighed and approached the car, passing the Old Ursuline gatehouse.

"Good God," Temeria said in lieu of a greeting. "Is that a sword?"

"It is," he replied.

The blade was cast in steel, plated with a thick layer of silver. He'd taken down many monsters with it. He also had a duffel of silver chain, which had helped subdue unholy creatures in the past.

With the scabbard strapped to his back, the leather grip was visible over his shoulder. It was also why he liked the streets to be unpopulated. Humans tend to become alarmed by the sight of it.

Temeria closed the door and said, "I didn't expect to see such an archaic weapon, considering what Miss Merigold told me about you."

"And what's that?"

"That I should trust you." His eyes held a glimmer of hope as he said, "That you know what you're doing."

"I know what to do with such an archaic weapon."

Temeria nodded with a deep breath.

Geralt was tempted to assure Temeria he wouldn't harm Ti-Adda, but that would be a lie. He might. He didn't want to, but cursed girls weren't usually inclined to care about his intentions.

At least, in his experience.

"Will this work?" Temeria asked. "Be honest."

"I don't know."

"Will she ever be normal?"

"What is normal?" he retorted.

"That's the $64,000 question, isn't it."

He pulled Renfri's gold brooch from his jacket's inner pocket and offered it. Temeria looked at it for a moment before taking it and holding it in his palm. It glowed in the flickering gaslight from the gatehouse's sconces.

"What's this?"

"For Ti-Adda. If I can lift the curse, a gift."

Temeria frowned. "You don't expect to see sunrise."

"This isn't my first time trying to save… someone—" He swallowed and zipped his jacket. "Someone who others see as a monster."

Temeria held up the brooch. "What happened to this someone?"

"I killed her."

He would've thought he'd be numb to the fact after so many years. While it didn't hurt the same, it ached like a poorly set limb. He knew, however, it was nothing compared to what Renfri had gone through.

"Adda and I resisted at first." Temeria studied the brooch. "Love is such a bitch." He met Geralt's eyes. "I envy you. You get to live your long life without getting screwed over by it."

Geralt wasn't so sure about that—though he wasn't supposed to feel.

Could the absence of a thing still sting? And if he didn't feel, how could it sting? Maybe he didn't feel like Foltest felt for Adda, but he felt. Perhaps not in a human's way. He knew regret and generosity and tenderness. He knew lust and fury, yearning and despair.

He knew he felt for the people in his life. Even if he sometimes didn't want to.

"Well, I suppose I should be heading out," Temeria said. "But before I do, I have a gift for you."

He frowned in confusion as he watched Temeria open the passenger door and order whoever was inside out. He caught the whiff of blood, familiar sweat, and dirty hair. He wasn't surprised when Baron Ostrit hobbled onto the banquette.

Ostrit had a black eye and split lip. His hair was ruffled, as if someone had repeatedly fisted it. A seam or two had been popped on his sweat-stained oxford shirt. He was a long ways from the dignified patron he'd met almost a week ago.

"Witcher," Ostrit hissed. "We had a deal."

Temeria grabbed the collar of Ostrit's shirt with a snarl. "We had more than a deal." He shoved him at Geralt. "You get me my daughter."

Geralt caught Ostrit by the nape. Temeria gave him a nod before getting into the car, which drove off seconds later.

Ostrit squirmed in his hold. "This is crazy, Rivia! You know it! It's wrong! Let me go!"

"No," he said and steered him to the gatehouse.

"Foltest must pay for what he did!"

"Explain that to Ti-Adda."

Unfortunately, Ostrit wouldn't be able to explain it to Adda, his _ladylove._

"Let me go! Dammit, Witcher!"

The entrance of the gatehouse was unlocked. He frowned. Magic shimmered over his skin as he unlatched the solid door and pushed it open. He recognized that magic. Clean, masterly, and strong. Too strong to break.

Once they crossed this barrier, they'd be behind it until the caster let them out.

Yennefer knew and was helping the only way she could. She always did trust him to understand. And he did.

Ostrit bellowed, "What are you doing?! Are you nuts? _No!_ "

He sent Ostrit through the barrier and into the unlit vestibule. Ostrit tripped over the brick floor, landing on a garden bench on the other side. Geralt stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him.

"Tell me how to lift the curse."

"Just let me go. I—" Ostrit glanced over his shoulder at the old colonial convent-turned-museum beyond the inner gate. "I'll pay you! Double! Triple!"

He must've felt the striga just like Geralt did. She was ravenous and full of rage.

He took a step closer. "Tell me how to lift the curse."

Ostrit panted, shaking his head. "It—it was a sorceress, running from the Brotherhood. Out near Belle River." He nodded like Geralt would seek out this sorceress now. "S-she sold me this lamb, told me to kill it on the full moon. I said her silly chant…" He swallowed and lowered his gaze. "And bathed in the lamb's blood until sunrise, alright?! I did it until the 'first rays of morning sun touched the land.'"

Ostrit moved to the edge of the bench, watery eyes wide. "That's it, okay? I swear!" He looked over his shoulder again. "Now let's go!"

"What was the chant?"

"It…" His face pinched as he said, "It was years ago." He blinked. "It was Elven, I think?"

Ostrit's mouth worked as he thought. Finally, he stuttered the chant. However, it wasn't Elven. It was Elder. This was old, powerful magic. Geralt had experience with Elder magic. Usually the way to undo an Elder spell was in the spell itself.

He sighed and stomped to the reception desk to open his duffel. He riffled through it until finding the pouch that held his vials of enhancing potion.

"What?" Ostrit asked. "I-I've given you everything. What else is there?"

"Nothing, unless you can keep a striga out of her crypt until fucking dawn."

He uncorked the vial and drank the potion in one smooth shot.

Softly, Ostrit said, "You're gonna fight her till dawn?"

The potion burned in his stomach. It oozed like magma through his gut, permeating his blood. He breathed through the discomfort until his body acclimated.

The night was no longer quiet. A rat scurried through the sculpted hedges in the garden between the gatehouse and main building. Stone scraped stone somewhere on the grounds. A lone screech pierced the uneasy hush.

"What're you doing? What's going on?"

He traded the vial for a set of cuffs.

When he turned, Ostrit squinted. He didn't give Ostrit enough time to react. Hauling Ostrit by the shirt, he kicked open the inner gate's entrance and maneuvered him to the other side. Ostrit bleated and protested, dug the heels of his scuffed loafers into the brick, but to no avail. Geralt cuffed him to a picket.

Even on his best day, Ostrit would never have been able to stop him.

"No!" Ostrit yelled as Geralt went to retrieve the duffel. "No, don't do this—!" Metal clanged against metal. "—No, I... _Please!_ Please don't!"

He snatched the duffel from the desk and walked through the entrance once more. The chains inside clinked as he passed Ostrit, adding another layer of metallic sounds to lure out Ti-Adda.

"You're leaving me?! You'd leave a man to die like this?"

"You're not a man," he said.

He walked towards the main building, hearing the echoes of a cursed girl's footsteps.

* * *

???, ???

A gentle hand held his cheek. _No_ —more than one. Not the same one. They off-set again and again, reflected and repeated and reverberated. They coalesced into one touch to ground him.

The loamy earth was against his back and under his palms. He was above and below. Fire burned in her brown eyes and warmed their exposed skin.

She sighed his name and reeled him in for a kiss. His lips came back bloody and bitter. She held his gaze as she shook, her sweaty skin paling. He couldn't give her what she needed, couldn't protect her, couldn't offer her better.

He only had himself, after all.

He closed his eyes and bent his head. When he opened them again, it was to a golden-lit bedroom he didn't recognize. He lay on a bed that was not his own. He bit back a groan as he attempted to sit. The muscles in his torso pulled unnaturally. Hands appeared on his shoulders to guide him down. He wanted to fight their hold, but he couldn't find the strength.

"Geralt!"

_Jaskier._

His eyes popped open. What the hell was Jaskier doing here?

Feet pounded over the floor, their sound muffling as they approached. He tried to turn his head, but his neck viciously protested. _Ti-Adda._ His mouth still tasted tinny.

He didn't get a chance to ask for something to drink. Strong, long-fingered hands steadied his face. Jaskier's soft blue eyes hovered over him for a second before even softer lips pressed to his own. He patted the back of Jaskier's arm as he let himself be kissed.

After a moment, Jaskier pulled away to murmur, "You need to brush your teeth."

"I'll get right on that."

Merigold waited behind Jaskier, a gentle expression painting her features. As Jaskier adjusted the pillows behind him, Merigold stepped around him with a mug of something. She waited until he was bolstered to Jaskier's liking to offer the mug.

"You heal quite nicely," she said, as he took the mug from her.

He definitely had the scars to prove that.

In the meantime, Jaskier backed away to sit at the foot of the bed. His fingers worried at the artful tear in his jeans.

"Ti-Adda?"

"It's been arranged she stay in St. Alphonsus Convent for now."

"But… I—" He'd felt his teeth sink into her delicate throat. "Her neck?"

He'd collapsed as they'd both bled in the chapel's sanctuary. The indifferent saints had watched on as he gasped. She'd curled against the altar, feral and afraid—and finally human. Together, they'd destroyed the shuttered third floor. Up there had been nothing but dust, coffins, and the ash-covered skeletons of dead vampires.

Merigold said, "She'll heal, too," and motioned for him to drink his tea.

The green concoction was cool and tasted of astringent herbs and honey. It wasn't the worst thing he'd ever had in his mouth. It wasn't the best, either. But it did clear the taste of metal from his tongue.

"You should know, Baron Ostrit is dead. Foltest is holding a jazz funeral for him. With a second line."

Jaskier added, "I, for one, will not be attending."

He grunted and sipped at the tea.

A third voice piped in from the open doorway. "I think that's enough reality for one day."

He looked up to see Yennefer leaning a shoulder on the doorjamb. It all clicked, then. He was in her home. Of course, he was. The bedroom, while simple, was well-appointed. He felt her wards, her protection.

Jaskier stood first and held his hand out to Merigold as he said, "Heal quick, Geralt. You don't want to miss too many of my performances."

"Perish the thought."

After giving Geralt a last once-over, Merigold took Jaskier's hand. As they left the room, her hand lingered on Yennefer's arm. Yennefer gave her a soft look and nod.

Then they were alone.

Walking to the bed, she said, "Most would've killed her, you know."

He hummed. He didn't want to fight or justify his actions. He'd done the right thing—for once.

"Did Temeria at least pay me?" he asked.

She sat by his hip, her elegant hands fisted on her thighs.

"Is that why you didn't?" she returned. "The money?"

"Did he?"

_"Yes,"_ she spat and pulled open the nightstand's drawer to retrieve a thick envelope. "Here." She threw it at his side. "He also wanted me to return this."

She dropped Renfri's brooch on the bed. He stared at it. The emeralds shimmered even in the low light. A gift returned, unwanted. Temeria would have a difficult time explaining the sudden appearance of such a gift. No one was supposed to know Ti-Adda had been cursed, or that said curse had been broken by a witcher.

"Thank you."

"Dammit, Geralt. This is why." She pointed at the envelope. "You push—" She shook her head. "You say that's all life needs to be: monsters and money."

He let out a breath.

"I'm not going to wait until one finally gets you."

He nodded. He'd never expected her to wait for him. He didn't expect anything from her at all.

She softly demanded, "Say something."

"What is there to say?"

"Say you care—for once. Jaskier might be a pretentious moron, but he cares for you. And I think you care for him."

"And you?"

"What about me?"

"Do you think I care about you?"

She said nothing. As the silence grew like a tumor, he tried to recall any time he'd ever vocalized any feeling. No one asked him what he felt, but that didn't mean they didn't want to know. Unlike Temeria, Yennefer knew he'd held onto his emotions.

"I care," he said.

"Then don't take another suicidal job again. That's what that was." She bobbed her head at the brooch. "Don't think I don't know."

"Yet you helped me."

"Consider it a professional courtesy."

It was quiet for a minute before he placed a hand on top of hers. Her jaw worked for a second before she flipped over her hand to hold his. She watched their hands as he watched her.

She hadn't changed in the time they'd been apart. Neither had he, evidently.

For all her sharpness, her heart never wavered. She'd follow her loved ones into hell. She'd follow him, too, bitching the whole way, but following and fighting beside him.

He opened his mouth to say something, maybe to thank her—he didn't know—but she let go and stood.

"Drink your tea." She wet her bottom lip as she nodded to the mug in his other hand. "I'll check your bandages later."

"Don't make me drink the rest of this."

"Healer's orders."

"Slave driver," he said with a wry glance.

She smirked. "Always."

He hummed noncommittally and grimaced though another sip of tea.

* * *

Friday, Garden District

Yennefer didn't hear him until he stood in the kitchen doorway. Not for the first time, she wished she had enhanced senses like him. She offered coffee before resuming stirring the red wine reduction for his steak.

"Smells good," he said as he approached.

"As do you."

He'd hosed off all the blood—for which she was grateful. She didn't want to eat breakfast with a blood-splattered Geralt. His clothes were in the laundry, too. She'd sent his leather jacket to the cleaner. For now, he wore a pair of sleep-pants and a coordinating robe: both gifts she hadn't been able to give him years ago.

He quipped, "It's surprising what a bar of soap will do."

He looked good. His coloring had returned. He'd finger-combed his damp silver hair away from his face. He'd shaved, too, though he'd kept clear of the slashes at the side of his throat.

She grinned. "Here, try this," she said and offered a taste of the reduction.

He met her gaze as he steadied her hand to try it. His voice was a rumbling purr as he said:

"Delicious."

"I should hope so," she said, hiding her delight at pleasing him. "I am good with a recipe."

"Of any kind." He backed off to pour himself a mug of coffee. "I like the shallot and mushrooms in there."

"Thought it would pair well with your steak. You still like it bloody, don't you?"

"Of course."

"Good." She plucked the tongs from the counter, giving them a click, and lowered the raw steak into the heated skillet on a back burner. "Speaking of: How are the wounds?"

"I'm fine."

"Obviously, _you_ are. I asked after _your wounds_."

"They're fine. Shallow now. Scabbed."

She turned the burner under the reduction to low and pivoted to study him. He took a small sip of his coffee as he leaned a hip on the counter, letting her look her fill.

The nicks on his forehead looked at least a week old instead of a day. His neck didn't need a bandage, either. She assumed his clawed and bruised stomach was much the same.

She wouldn't put it past him to lie, but there seemed no reason to. He must know lying would only piss her off, anyway.

She narrowed her eyes at him before letting it go. She pivoted back to the counter and cracked a few eggs into a bowl.

"Well, go sit then. Triss dropped off caper cream-cheese and lox for bagels this morning. It's all in the dining room."

He said nothing as he left the kitchen, yet he trailed his hand across her back as he passed. The heat of his touch lingered. She stared at the back-splash for a moment, paralyzed with the memory of his past affections.

She shook herself and gave the sizzling steak a flip.

Once finished, she arranged his breakfast on a plate and walked it, and her coffee, to the adjacent dining room. Late morning light filtered through the partially opened shutters. A half-eaten bagel remained on the plate near the platter she'd set out earlier.

Geralt stood by one of the windows, mug in hand. She admired him in the column of striped light. Not many people got to see him like this: pensive and relaxed.

She cleared her throat, though she knew he must've heard her footsteps. Moving his occupied plate to the side, she set his place for him.

"Breakfast," she said. "Steak and eggs."

He turned from the window, golden eyes flickering to the steaming meal.

"Where's yours?" he asked.

"I want a bagel."

"You didn't have to cook for me."

"No, I didn't. But you need the protein."

"Thank you, Yen."

He sat at the table while she prepared a bagel of her own. At the first bite of steak, he hummed. She gave him an expectant look.

He murmured, "Very good," with a nod.

They ate in silence for a few moments. She glanced at him to find him already watching her. It would've been creepy from any other man, but Geralt's eyes crinkled at the corners as he chewed like he was only enjoying this rare moment.

"You're a good man, Geralt," she said.

He blinked with an audible swallow.

She continued, "You risked your life and gave that girl her freedom."

"I did what had to be done."

She sighed, knowing this would turn into a cyclical argument. He stacked a bite of egg and steak on his fork and ate.

She said, "Ti-Adda has a future now. Innocent people aren't dying because of her—"

"Because of Ostrit."

She waved a hand in agreement and dismissal. "She can be human again."

He shook his head. "No, she'll never be mundane ever again."

"Maybe not entirely, but she has a chance to live now."

He grunted.

She couldn't help but imagine how Adda had felt, of carrying a child born of love—maybe not a conventional love, but love—and being so happy. If Adda continued on after death, she must've been horrified. Her child cursed, her family sabotaged. All because of one man's jealousy.

She hoped Baron Ostrit continued on and had to answer for his deeds.

Though her appetite had dried up, she powered through the remaining bites of her bagel. She stood and offered to refill his coffee, but he stopped her with a gentle hand on her forearm. His eyes searched hers as his mouth opened. She put a finger to his lips.

She whispered, "Don't," before bending to replace her fingers with her lips.

He relaxed in his chair and tilted his head to deepen the kiss. His soft lips tasted of the butter she'd cooked the eggs with and salt. His other hand cradled her neck to keep her close. She figured she would've forgotten his kisses, the way he moved with her, but her body never had.

She pulled away, freeing her arm from his loose hold to stroke his cheekbone with a thumb. The corners of his lips curled.

Softly, she said, "I have work to do, and you need to rest."

"I should be getting back."

"No, rest here."

A little furrow appeared between his brows.

"No arguing. Everything is _fine._ You can take a day."

He grumbled, "All right."

She rewarded him with a quick kiss.

Yennefer eased the door to the veranda closed behind her. A television lowly droned from the dim lounge by the kitchen. She rubbed at her gritty eyes and took a deep breath. It had been a long, if routine, day of research, spellwork, and potions.

She left her sandals by the door and padded to the lounge threshold. Geralt reclined on the large sofa in front of the television, eyes closed and bare feet crossed on the coffee table. He still wore the sleep-pants and robe. A half-drunk glass of ice water sweated by his elbow on the side table.

Not wanting to disturb him, she avoided the creaking floorboards as she crept through the lounge to the kitchen. The early-evening sun illuminated the house well enough for her to leave the lights off as she poured herself some sweet tea.

Ice clinked on glass, and she turned towards the sound. Geralt took a sip of water as he watched her over the rim of his glass.

"I'm surprised you actually stayed," she said as she returned to the lounge.

"You asked me to."

"I've asked you to before and you didn't."

He placed his glass on the coaster as she sat one cushion away on the sofa.

"I woke on Ash Wednesday—no djinn, no wishes, and no you."

She drank her tea to give her hands something to do. It had been pointless to bring up their first, and last, Mardi Gras. She knew that. They couldn't go back in time to change anything. It was done.

His long silver hair shifted on his shoulders as he bent his head.

"Forgive me," he said, his deep voice rumbling like thunder in his chest.

She studied his handsome profile. A five-o'clock shadow already darkened his chiseled cheeks.

They were both too long-lived to hold a grudge like this. He'd left her, she'd left him, things had come between them. None of that was new, and she didn't want to keep score anymore.

She'd almost lost him.

She set her glass on the coffee table, then closed the distance between them. He watched her intently, his body still as though he didn't breathe. Maybe she shouldn't do it, but she didn't want to stay away.

She closed her eyes and kissed his lips, tentative and soft. He responded like ice had cracked in his chest, yet his movements remained slow. She sank into the kiss as she braced a hand on his thigh.

When she didn't pull away, he began kissing her in earnest. He kissed her mouth open, tongue gliding over hers. He cradled her face in his broad, rough palms. His nose nudged her cheek as he kissed her again and again.

She lay against his chest, hand on his collarbone, as she gave a teasing flick of her tongue. He purred and took control to suck at her bottom lip. He smeared his lips over hers in a near decadent caress she felt down to her toes.

She whimpered something akin to his name.

He wrapped an arm behind her back as he maneuvered into sitting. She tugged at the lapels of his robe to get him to turn and lie with her on the sofa. However, he murmured a _no_ against her lips and forced her to stand with him.

"Upstairs."

She opened her mouth to argue, because she didn't want to wait, but he pulled her flush and kissed her again. It's like drowning. She couldn't find logic. She flailed internally, mind gone static, as she put her arms around him and let the moment take her.

One of his hands slid down her back to grip under her ass and lift her off the floor. She stiffened with a gasp.

His healing wounds.

"Geralt, no, put me down."

"The day I can't pick you up is the day I lay down my sword."

"Is that supposed to be romantic?"

He hummed with a satisfied look. "Put your legs around me."

She huffed in mock annoyance before hooking her legs around his waist. She was grateful she'd worn a long, flowy skirt today. He purred again as he gave her ass an affectionate squeeze. She refused to be impressed and kissed him again.

She kissed him all the way through the lounge and connecting parlor and foyer. She tightened her grip as he mounted the stairs.

He whispered, "I have you."

She wouldn't argue that. He definitely had her.

Mouthing at his jaw and ear, she breathed in the clean scent of him. His hold tensed as he cursed. If he were on her bed, he would've writhed. She bit her lip as she pressed her breasts against his chest.

"Dammit, Yen," he growled, though he didn't sound very upset.

She kissed the hinge of his jaw in apology.

On the second floor, he marched into her darkening bedroom to lay her across the bed. He only rested half on top of her, bracing most of his weight on an elbow. He kissed her again to taste her with lips and tongue. He nipped at her bottom lip to open her mouth how he wanted.

He ran a hand over her side to cup one of her breasts. She arched into it and pulled him closer, yet he halted. He skated that same hand up her body to her cheek. He held her face and stared into her eyes.

He must've found whatever he'd been searching for, because he gave her a raw, relieved look.

Smoothing away her hair, he dove in to kiss her once more. She angled to him and curled a leg over his hip as she welcomed him. Her skirt slinked up her thigh, his soft robe tickled her skin. He groaned deep in his chest as he pushed a hand under her ass to draw her nearer.

"Feel so good," he murmured against her lips.

She reeled him in for another kiss, wanting to devour him—to make up for lost time. Holding the back of his head, she gave him open-mouthed kisses. She sucked on his tongue. His hips jerked against her thigh in reply. The mound of his cock practically burned through the layers between them.

He broke the kiss as he caressed down her chest. "Love your scent," he said as he looked between their bodies.

"Shall I bottle some for you?"

"I prefer it on your neck."

He dipped to kiss her throat as he gathered her tank top. Putting space between them, he tugged the fabric up and spanned a hand over her ribs. She needed him to touch her more, kiss her again, get between her legs.

He cupped her breast, massaging it though her bra. The lining slid over her skin. She was keenly aware of how her nipples tightened.

With his soft lips on her neck, she was caught in indecision on where to go. She wanted him everywhere. She brought his face up to kiss him again. He groaned as his thigh inched higher between hers. She gave an approving noise, pulling him further on top.

He nudged her legs apart and got between them. His hips press her into the bed. His cock was a fervid ridge digging into her belly. She rocked under him, panting against his lips.

He rutted with her for a moment, kissing her cheek, her jaw, her neck. He continued down her chest until he reached the swooping neckline of her tank. With a little smirk, he pulled her tank up her torso and over her arms. He kissed right above the center gore of her bra. The damp imprint of his kiss cooled on her skin as he followed the line of a bra cup.

Breathless, she arched her back and struggled to unhook her bra. Geralt held her ribs as he ground his pelvis against hers. Once she got the bra loose and tossed away, he pounced to kiss her chest and upper stomach.

He growled, "Fuck."

He sucked at her skin, as if trying to get her taste on his tongue. He moved down to lick the undersides of one of her breasts. She stilled and pushed her fingers into his hair as he mouthed at the outer curve. His big hands angled her chest off the bed.

Her breath rushed from her lungs when he finally took a nipple in his mouth. He sucked hard, making her cry out. His teeth pinched, making her jolt at the pleasurable pain. She felt it down in her cunt as her muscles clenched.

He moved to her other nipple to pull at it with his sharp teeth and soothe it with his velvet tongue. She whimpered for mercy or for more, she didn't know. She only wanted him, only wanted this to continue. It hardly mattered if he bruised her.

"Geralt," she whispered.

His molten-gold eyes darted to hers. They stared at each other as her chest heaved below his chin. He slithered up her body, his pelvis slipping into place against hers, and caught her lips.

His crisp chest hair abraded her peaked nipples as he pushed an arm under her back. She was captive under his powerful body. He was ensnared by her strong limbs. His hot skin with its smooth scars felt as good as any silk. His muscles rippled underneath like a deadly tide.

She already felt taken under as he kissed her again. He overwhelmed her senses, leaving her breathless and dizzy with desire. He made her feel valued and cherished. He was strong and loving and secretly vulnerable. Despite his defenses, he could be so generous—and all she wanted to do was return that generosity.

She wanted to give him what no one else had.

"I want you," she softly said and tucked a lock of his hair behind an ear.

He shivered, his gaze raking down her body. When he met her eyes, he let out a breath as his hips slowly rocked forward.

She scraped her bottom lip with her teeth before repeating, "I want you."

"I want you, too," he replied and reared onto his knees.

He took hold of the stretchy waistbands of her skirt and underwear and drew them down her hips. She lay there once they were off, letting her legs bracket his thighs. She had the urge to pull him down, have him thrust his cock inside her just like this.

He stared between her legs, frozen for a beat.

Then he threw her clothing off the bed and stripped off his rumpled robe. She reached for him, but he swooped down to kiss her belly. She almost asked what he was doing, but she choked on the question as he curled his arms under her bent legs and slid down the bed.

His velvety tongue licked a thick stripe up her wet slit, his stubble scratched at her skin. She groaned and let her head fall back.

He answered with a groan and wasted no time finding her clit. He fluttered his tongue around it, ending in gentle suction. She pushed her hips toward his face as she blindly reached for his forearms. She wanted to tell him he didn't have to be gentle now, she could take it, but she couldn't form the words.

He forced her to the bed with strong hands on her hips and buried his face in her pussy. Placing her hands on top of his, she let her knees fall open. She rocked against his mouth, pleading for him in half-formed sentences. She quivered and strained, muscles tight, as she all but begged him to continue.

Geralt was ruthless as he laved her clit and rhythmically sucked at it. She cursed, telling him she was close. Because she was stretched to the limit. He hummed as he doubled his efforts with eyes closed and nose pressing into her mound.

His talented mouth worked, hot and wet, between her legs until she was wrenched into orgasm. Her mouth fell open, heels digging into the mattress, as her cunt throbbed. Climax ran like quicksilver through her, flashed in her spine and warmed her thighs. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears as she gasped in pleasure.

Yennefer trembled and gripped his hands as he drew circles over her clit with the flat of his tongue. It was too much, too good, making her jerk with each whirl. She whined for him and pulled at his clasping hands.

He snaked his hands to her sides and licked up her folds one more time before showing mercy. She swallowed through a dry throat as she looked down her torso at him. He met her gaze, eyes full of feline-like satisfaction, and sucked her come off his lips.

She touched his warm cheeks, stroked his cheekbones with her thumbs.

"Up here," she breathed.

He smirked, wiped at the lower half of his face, and crawled over her like a predator. She pulled him down to kiss him again, not minding the taste of herself. He smelled of her—all sweetly tangy and salty.

She pushed back the hair that had flopped around his face and surveyed him. It would be easy to get lost in studying his striking features. His allure, especially like this, was rather overwhelming.

She trailed her fingers, and gaze, down his body. He still wore the sleep-pants, which were tented with the heft of his erection. She cupped his cock through them, the soft fabric dampening with precome.

Above her, he shuddered as his cock pulsed on her palm.

She met his eyes once more and gave him a squeeze as she murmured, "Fuck me."

He growled and fiercely kissed her. She moaned and held his firm waist as she returned each hard kiss. She didn't care if either of them bruised.

He took hold of her wrists one at a time and forced them to the bed. She arched up to catch his lips, but he evaded to kiss her throat. She threw her chin back as she writhed.

Between kisses to her neck, he murmured, "Taste so good."

He left searing kisses down her throat to where it met her shoulder. He added teeth in sensual threat. She rubbed her inner thighs on his hips just to return the touch. He dug his teeth into her shoulder like he needed more of her in his mouth. But it hurt, sharp and thrilling and clear. It made her soaked pussy clench.

She gasped in desire, tilting her pelvis up.

"C'mon, Geralt, please!"

He whispered, "I love your need."

"And I love it when you fuck me."

He huffed a chuckle and kissed the bite on her shoulder. He kissed all the way back to her lips, which she deepened automatically. She tried to put how much she wanted him in the kiss, how she couldn't get enough. She wanted all of him, all that he'd give.

He sagged on his elbows as his hold loosened. She didn't try to free herself, however. Getting away was the furthest thing from her mind.

He broke the kiss with a _"fuck"_ and reared back again. He ripped open the tie in the robe's belt and flung the robe away. She propped herself on her elbows to watch him wiggle out of the sleep-pants. His cock sprung from its confines to almost smack his abdomen.

The luscious flush and perfect curve of it had her mouth watering.

He steadied his cock as he knee-walked near. She drew her legs up and open. He took his place between them to kneel there and stroke his dick a few times. Milky precome glossed the tip.

She could hardly look away, but a glance at his face found him already staring back. His fiery eyes caught the evening light that filtered through the window sheers. No one else ever looked at her like he did. Yes, he wanted her, but he _saw_ her. There was always so much more than lust.

"Lie back," she said, but he shook his head.

"I want you like this."

"Your injuries—"

"Are fine."

His bruises had faded to a green-yellow, the scabbed slashes looked old.

She internally debated about arguing her point, but she knew he wouldn't acquiesce. He was so stubborn. It was something that pleased and frustrated her in turns. She supposed the same could be said about herself.

She lay back. He took that for the invitation it was. He braced himself on one arm, then the other, as he crept over her until he lowered himself. She ran her hands up his solid arms and over his flexing shoulders. His hair flowed over the back of her hands as she stopped at his nape.

He slipped an arm under her back and moved in to kiss her. This time it wasn't hard or demanding. It wasn't soft, either. There was something powerful and purely him behind it, and it took her by surprise.

She needed him. No more waiting. She stopped the kiss. He protested with a soft grunt before kissing the corner of her mouth. She wrapped her hand around his cock to guide him down. He spread his knees, getting into position.

The first touch of his dick between her sensitive folds had her biting back a whimper. She rolled her hips just to feel the smooth, spongy head rub her clit.

With a tight jaw, he said, "Don't tease, Yennefer."

She met his eyes. "My apologies," she replied, smirking.

His dick jerked in her hand.

"Let me in," he gritted. "Let me fuck your sweet cunny."

She nodded, heart pounding in her ears, as she directed his cock where she was desperate for it.

He nudged at her entrance. She let go to place her hands at his waist. He slid deep inside in one unrelenting push, forcing a short whine from her chest.

She was so wet, so ready, he glided right in. Like he was made for fucking her.

Her cunt pulsated around his thick cock. His head dropped next to hers with a groan, cock jerking again.

He panted, "So good."

She nodded in agreement as she skated her hands up his flanks. "Kiss me."

He did, licking into her mouth. He kissed like an invasion, conquering and leaving her speechless. He caressed her cheek, his callused thumb grazing her cheekbone.

He widened his knees, his dick sinking deeper, and propelled her legs further apart. She moaned against his mouth as he rocked his hips. She moved with him, encouraging.

He held her steady as he began thrusting. Each time their bodies met, he ground against her to fuck pleasured whimpers from her chest. His grip on her shoulder tightened as he ordered her to look at him.

When she did, he dug his knees into the bed and cranked his hips. Her mouth fell open, her nails clawed at his back. He growled at the small pain and thrust faster, harder, going deep. His cock stroked every sensitive spot as his hypnotic eyes stared into hers.

"Will you come for me?" he asked, breathless.

"Y-yes!"

He groaned as his hips slapped against hers with each powerful thrust. She couldn't stop the tensing of her body, of how she strained under him. She knew the release building would be devastating.

"Don't stop," she whispered. _Don't go._

And he didn't. He gave her everything. He hammered his cock inside her in an unyielding rhythm. He thrust over and over until she keened and writhed. Heat and sharp pleasure rush through her, making her moan in shock. Her body locked as her cunt throbbed. She couldn't catch her breath. It was too much.

Geralt kept going, ratcheting her into such a delirious state that everything dissolved around her. She only felt his fast breath on her lips, his humid hands on her body, the drive of his strong hips pistoning his cock deep inside her.

He cursed and groaned, "So good."

_And all yours._

His eyes widened, breath catching, as high color tinged his cheeks. He thrust in one powerful time, sheathing himself fully and knocking a winded groan from her. He held her tight and ground her into the mattress with taut circles of his hips. His cock impossibly hardened further as it pulsed and pulsed, flooding her with his come.

As he calmed, she cradled his damp face. He was beautiful with his battle scars and furrowed brow. His lips were swollen from her kisses, chest heaving against hers.

She smiled and agreed with herself. She was his—and he was hers. There seemed no point in denying it now. It was the best and most inconvenient thing that could've happened.

Geralt stared back, his eyes a wellspring of unvoiced things. She kissed him and kissed him, never wanting to let him go and so grateful he'd survived. She drew him down until he rested his head on her chest.

"Stay," she whispered. _Stay the night, for the next week, as long as you want._

He kissed her chest. "I will."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Come yell at me on [my Tumblr](https://the-wayward-rose.tumblr.com).


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